


The M. Letters

by M (Beatrice_Sank)



Series: Last of the Inked [4]
Category: All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket, Original Work, Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Also not my first language (apologies), Ashes, Beast(s), Berets, Codes&Cyphers, Crickets, Dark Dark, Dark Grammar, Dark opening lines, Don't Read This, Evil Plot, Extremely Elaborated Headcanon, Eyes, For V. (and for him only), Gardening, Gen, Haven't you missed a tag, I could tell (but then I would have to kill you), I try to be brave 'cause when I'm brave other people feel brave, Initial confusion, Initials (and confusion), Last of the inked, Libraries, Little Shards of Evil, More to this than meets the eye, Real Life Riddles and Challenges, Roleplaying (or is it), Secrets Missions, Summer, This is so coherent (in my head), Unbetaed (for obvious reasons), Your Average Post-Schism Life, but I feel like my heart is caving in, dark secrets, dark themes, pocket universes, vfd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/pseuds/M
Summary: Once, a sprawling organization chose to imprint children's skin with a mark that could mean anything. Once, two kids were tattooed into the heart of a Schism, and they were the very last ones. The Last of the Inked. So they ran to go where the world was quiet, but the world frowned to them, and eventually they had to see for themselves what that noise was.If there is nothing out there, we might as well write way too definite letters to each other, right?





	1. 1 October, 13th

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, V. Fancy meeting you here.
> 
> [Hello, lost reader. I'm sorry but I went to all this trouble for just one person, and this is not you. This may prove difficult to follow, but you're welcome to fill the blanks with your own twisted fantasies. The two of us could use some company.]
> 
> This, of course, is a fragmentary plot.

1

 

V.,

 

One should always have a quotable, efficient first line when writing a letter. Such as “I'm very sorry to inform you that there is a villain hidden inside that snowman in your courtyard”, or “here is a map that will lead you to the sugar bowl”, or even “If you expected to read some good news, you'd better go and choose another letter”. Of course, since there is no reasonable certitude that this particular letter will ever reach you, I took the liberty of disregarding that rule.

You disregarded a lot of rules too lately, by contacting me in the way you did. However, no matter how dangerous, it was a real pleasure to read you again. I thought, after all those fights and all those sleepless nights, we were definitively done with being volunteers, that we had agreed to back off in front of all the dangers and all the cruelties of this world. I even was satisfied: I thought there was a kind of wisdom in retiring, in refusing to endorse the radicalism of our condition, the drama enclosed in our story and very names. Last of the inked, last of the volunteers – officially, at least. We had everything it took to be two of those characters that haunt the books we love the most, you and I. We were to be heroes. We were to save the day, and defeat evil, while cracking a few jokes on the way. We had to be main characters, and that scared me up to no end. I thought, maybe there is nobility in stepping down, in fading away, in becoming invisible. In becoming secondary characters, or even bystanders, anonymous faces in the crowd, innocent, ignorant, useless. This was twelve months ago. I was the last of the volunteers. And I was wrong.

We are no heroes, V. We know that by now. We just have a job to do, and we do it the best we can, because it needs to be done, because everything needs to be less wrong. But when I read your code, it felt like I was in Training again. Suddenly, I was eight and J. was yelling Sebald at me at a ridiculous pace, shaking his bell like a madman. I was in Dissimulation and Verisimilitude Confinement class. I was up in the woods, trying to gather the ingredients for those ointments. It reminded me there were certain things I was made to do, and that I was good at. Well, tolerable at least, according to my Puzzling Games and Intricate Sports instructor.

Now that I think about it, your letter was fairly simply put, as if you knew I needed time to warm up my skills. Still, it was pretty bold of you, to break in the Tower like this. It's good to know you're still the best when it comes to defeat a grumpy lock.

I have to admit I was a bit slow on the uptake, but you have to forgive me. We both tried to live a different life at the Extremely Normal School, and I thought I had to drop that kind of logic forever. One cannot go around seeing signs and codes everywhere. It drives you mad. So I did what I do best. I asked the wrong questions. For my defense, I'd say there is a good reason I refuse to see the things that go by three and are hidden everywhere. Of course, that's a mistake you normally make only once.

In the end, did I pass your test? Even if I didn't, you cannot very well do without me, now, can you? We are the last of our kind, and there are things that go by two. We are but tied by the ankle in some absurd and sinister country fair competition. The image is ridiculous enough to ruin our chances of being good, likable characters, but I have you know this is more accurate that many of your heartfelt speeches. Let's stumble and fall together, then. Life was a bit too quiet, alright. There is work to be done.

 

Voluntarily yours,

 

M.

 


	2. 2 November, 23th

2

 

V.,

 

I begin to worry. This is a tolerable opening for a letter, if not terribly original. But I don't have time for literary criticism. I thought, at first, that you were only gallivanting about fictitious enemies in your letter, just to get me in the mood. Now I'm beginning to doubt this.

E.'s here. A sure sign that I have been spending too much time in the library is that I don't even know since when. Of course, she acts as if she owns the place. Though she is far too old for the role, she pretends to be a graduate student (in economics, of all things. Some people have no decency). The curious thing is that she doesn't seem to be interested in me. I've been fairly discrete, but she must know I'm here. My main concern, nonetheless, is that she might have discovered that B. is working here undercover. I just cannot believe, after all we went through, they have tracked us down again. I know there is no safe place. I know there is no true quietness. But dear Dahl, I thought we had earned our peace. I will not see this school reduced to a smoking mess.

Where are you, V.? You were supposed to leave town to take that internship, but if your letter really is to be trusted... I do hope you are safe. Because I haven't seen any trace of O., and that cannot be good. Since we still haven't received any news from K., I'll go and ask A.-C. for help. I have faith in her, and it is crucial that she keeps feeding us information on the late branch of the I.S. E. must no endanger that mission. That may be the last thing I ever do, but I'll be burned if I don't try. Literally, I guess.

 

 

Voluntarily yours, 

M.


	3. 3 December, 14th

3

 

V.,

~~It is a truth [citation needed] universally acknowledged,~~

~~Call me I. That's as good a pseudonym as any~~

~~Happy families are all alike. Every unhappy family is unhappy in a way that probably has something to do with something that we've done.~~

~~I used to go to bed early. And then, once my parents were asleep, I sneaked out of my room to send coded messages to my accomplice~~

Sometimes, there are more pressing matters than finding a memorable opening to a letter. Yesterday, A.-C. told me she was making considerable progress on her infiltration mission in the Convent of VdC. Her field of research gives her a tolerable excuse to spend a lot of time there and now that they have recruited her, she think she could get me in, having me pose for a novice. Isn't it ironic? I may be back to apprenticeship and insidious evaluations, this time on one of the countless dark sides of our sprawling organization. We are long past the idea of a two-sided conflict. We are also past the idea of a four-sided war. As D. once said, this is not a malevolent pentagram, or even an evil octagon of a fight. This is a bloody polygon of hatred and complication, forever evolving in a non-Euclidean plan, cracking the fabric of meaning and morality and tearing logic apart. Ask J. about hurricanes. I barely know how we are to call this one. Are we switching side, then? Don't worry, I only mean: me being on a mission, and you hiding. This time.

I hope you're well hidden. There has always been something ever so peculiar about O.: God knows he is not that bright (or at least, he pretends quite well), but rather oddly, his surrounding just seems to adjust to his level of malevolence. Of course, it has always been easier to light fire than to extinguish them. That being said, be careful and remember Rule number 73b from our Funny Venetian Disguise training. You can always turn into an old-fashioned gardener in a tick, and if I know you at all, you still have authentic-looking dirt under your nails to provide for such extremities. By the way, I have found some new specimens for your collection: I've come across a particularly tiny example of acacias, as I know they are dear to your heart. I do not dare to send them to you – that bluebird is not that strong, and I don't want to draw attention, so be back soon.

 

Voluntarily yours,

 

M.

 

PS (not P.S., God forbids):

~~Someone must have slandered J. and K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong (that is, given that a good definition of that concept is hard to provide, especially when something is burning somewhere), they were arrested.~~

~~It was a dark and inky night,~~

~~It was a pleasure to burn.~~

~~Along the journey of our life half way, I found myself again in a dark wood, wherein the straight road no longer lay, looking for plants that made a good remedy for burns~~

~~It was the best of times,~~ it was the worst of times ~~, it was the age of wisdom,~~ it was the age of foolishness ~~, it was the epoch of belief,~~ it was the epoch of incredulity ~~, it was the season of Light,~~ it was the season of Darkness ~~, it was the spring of hope,~~ it was the winter of despair.


	4. 4 January, 13th

4

 

V.,

 

There is something about B. I know I have been saying that for years, because there is always something about B., but since L…. well, I do not wish to dwell upon that topic here, and frankly, it would likely fill volumes. But. Since that all sinister affair, I came to understand she intended to stay away from the organization's activities. You remember better than me how it came as a shock to recognize her at the opening of the term last year. It shouldn't have been, since, as I discovered later, we had been advised to seek refuge in this safe place by the same person. The Duchess is ever so thoughtful, if a bit oblivious.

I am fine with the fact that she wanted to leave everything behind and protect her children, I honestly am. And even if I have said otherwise before, I can even understand the fact that she won't make contact with us, at least in the old way, that we were too entangled in the net of the Schism, too close, too symbolic. Too young, too. She may be right to say that we created our own enemy, but then she should not have recruited us. I don't want to press this on: I know you have more cause than me to resent her silence. Still, I went to one of her class, recently. Because, and this is where I headed from the start: I am uncertain if she recognized E. I know, it sounds impossible, but have you noticed how there is this gradual blindness that seems to creep into every adult's eyes? She is either oblivious to the extreme, or playing this game at an unsuspected level. Far higher than mine, in that case. Which is still possible: this is B., after all.

Anyway, I went and followed one of her seminars. Would you believe it was incredibly hard to stand there, as if at the Academy, listening to her with devoted passion? In a way, she has not changed. Content may be more conventional, but the old flame still burns… She clearly was upset to see me, especially when I tried Sebalding in the middle of a question, with the old zombie classic. Can you imagine what a fool I made of myself? She only looked at me as if I was out of this world, and said she had no taste for horror movies. I am not making this up. In retrospect, it may have been an insensitive choice of film.

Maybe I shouldn't be concerned. She is more experienced than us and can take care of herself, in the limits in which every volunteer can and try, which consists, primarily, in staying alive. I will keep an eye on her nonetheless (yes, that would be a poor excuse of a joke), at least as long as I am here; and that may not be for much longer. A-.C. sent me a note, she has convinced them to host some young novices on invitation. I think I'll have to peruse threw E.'s old collection of clothes to achieve a convincing look. I have never been one for convents.

I have to go now. Be safe, and home soon, for we cannot both be on errands, that would be the better way of loosing each other forever.

Voluntarily yours,

 

M.


	5. 5 February, 2nd

5

 

V.,

 

I would like to exchange my eyes for those of another, to forget I ever saw what I have seen. If you got my other message, know that I wasn't Sebalding for the sake of sending you gallivanting in far away libraries. All is true, as one of our favorite author once said, in his most famous but far from best book. There, in the lining of an old dress. It may be a fake, but I have studied it so much, seen so many pictures, read so many descriptions that somehow I was certain, as certain as one can rationally be in this uncertain, unruly world. You would have known, of course, you have seen it with your own eyes. But you're not here.

 

Why? Did E. felt the need to fraction it some years ago, when she was being sought out in the wild of the Schism? Was it broken somehow? It is a fake after all, or an experiment? Should I stop asking why and destroy it already? Which moped with chrome-plated handlebars at the back of the yard?

Apart from the first one, the only one, these must be the wrong questions. Those we have been taught not to ask. But then again, we never were top-students – never B.B. sort of volunteers. All evidence converges toward a fragmentary plot. And I only have a fragmentary mind to solve it, in a fragmentary world made of fragmentary mistakes, and fires. Here is a guess: how do you call a fraction of a fire? A fire. Actually, I guess you don't and just run away. The crime may not reside in the blade, but fire always resides in fire. I still own a box of matches, you know. Well, of course you know.

Speaking of B.B., two things come to my mind. One: I've made a mistake (oh, have those words been spoken by another, once?). Two: here it is. I've just given my spoils to B. Not B.B., B.B., well, the woman he married, or more accurately, the other way around. I gave it to her. I wrapped it up, hid it, and sent code to her, indicating location. There. You may ask the right question.

Truth is… I don't know what truth is. Frankly, that is too positive a concept. So I will say as much: we know for sure she doesn't have the rest of the statue (or at least, not anymore), we know that she is trying to stay away from all this (or at least pretending to); we know she has a talent for hiding things (or at least, had), we know she is on her own side, has been for years. She is our best choice.

Maybe I am just being cruel. To her, to you. I know I can be, sometimes. I was in fact counting on you, shall we need to retrieve it – even if I shudder to think why. You should really talk to her anyway. You know you must. She is your sister after all.

 

Have these eyes seen too much, V.? And shall they forget? All those old phrases… Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I have something in the corner of my eye. I cannot take my eyes off you. The night has… Do you wish you could erase everything, sometimes? Until all is faded and you can write it all again, in a more coherent, better way? I am ashamed. You know whose dreams those are. Theirs. Ours. In the end, the greatest enemy is the Beast that looks back in the mirror. Right?

 

 

Voluntarily yours,

M.

 


	6. 6 March, 6th

6

 

V.,

I really hope that, when you read this (if you read this), I will still be alive.

 

There. That is as good as it gets when it comes to opening lines.

Sorry, I'm babbling, but I am, ironically enough, dead serious. If this is the last letter I ever write, I'd better sober up and gain some gravitas of style. No one wants to be remembered as the merrily deceased.

I will try and gather what little spirit I have left and enlighten you on my current situation – or endarken you, as it is. I've been in the convent for a week. Things were going rather well: given my experience in occult and unreasonable cults, I must say I blended in without too much trouble (and once I wore the appropriate clothing, which was not the kind I would have thought originally) no one seemed to doubt me.

Here I realized that one of the sole advantages of being so young in the organization is that very few people actually know how I am supposed to look. Which, in this present case, is very, very precious. Thanks Dahl, S.T. has always had, if reports are to be trusted, very poor information skills. After all these years, it's a wonder she is still alive.

At first I thought the concerns you expressed about her were just a bait, pure code to get me to join your game. That was two months ago, and I was wrong. So. I know what the S. stands for, after all.

And in the end, this is one of the many facts of life that are as fascinating as they are terrifying. Because, since I know what the S. stands for (and you will know soon enough, the usual way), it means that she was, originally, from the other side. And by that I do not mean that obscure, fleeting other side that often appears to be our neighbor when the lightning is bad. No, I mean the old other side, the original one, the lawless side of the endless fight. So, if what we know about the historical T. is true (and from what I have observed here, I suspect it might be), it leads to two distinct hypothesis: either she has been reporting for the other side all along; or she has risen against her family background to join V.F.D., and somehow glided back to it at some point. Probably even before the Schism. Either way, she wouldn't be the first. I know you favor the first hypothesis, but I am not sure. That may be a personal bias, or the fact that I am too romantic. One last thing before coming back to the less fascinating topic of my possibly impending death: you may have seen portraits, but nothing could quite capture the uniqueness of that maze (especially under a veil).

 

Now, about that other thing.

I'm terrified. I'll try and send you as soon as I can a encrypted file containing the results of my inquiries, but nothing could quite describe it. This is worse than we thought. Though the convent is an old and quite forlorn branch of the I.S., they didn't renounce any claim to action. Far from it. I just came back from the strangest mass, and from someone who has been on our Vows and Fraternal Devotion sessions, that is not to be taken lightly. I bowed to an old statue of A.F., V. And I sang to it, or cried at it, sounds of inarticulate woe, resembling a wounded animal. This is their ritual. Surprisingly, that was less terrifying than when they finally played that old folk song, the one everybody is muttering on the way to daily work. It says it all, ATWIG. They are leading some experimentation, with all their acoustic guitars, large pants and homegrown food, they are up to no good. I fear. I fear evil may be homegrown, too. I fear I have stepped into a large pool of danger. I fear something has hatched.

 

It may be wise that you do what I suggested in my last letter. Please. If by Monday I haven't written again, send for me. I have never been a good swimmer. Life is but a long series of regrets. You may have my books, and I know you were just waiting to get hold of my plants. Drink the tea, invite K. around, if you can find her. And then jump into that bloody taxi and tell her to rescue me on the spot.

 

The world is ###, here. 

M.

 


	7. 7 March, 13th

7

 

V., 

If I ever thought being dramatic would pay off, I would have written you more letters. I am back in my Complete Tower. Now I can stop and think; now I can breath.

I'd very much like soybean sprouts and fire camp songs (yes, fire camp songs. At least they have the decency not to pretend having any) never to be mentioned again in my presence. I only have my acting skills to thank (hopefully this is not a family trait). But let's not be too optimistic: they may have let me go only to spy on us. I feel watched, those days, but that could just be my own moral sense.

I've heard you had some difficulties with my last delivery: I just thought you might use a quick trip to our good old library. After all, you've been away for a while, and it is always good to remember what the s. stand for. Collecting evidence took me long enough, the walls were very thin, and my audio equipment of poor quality (but in the background you may still perceive distorted echoes of the infamous song, as sung in the nearby chapel). I am, however, sorry to say that this does not account for the trembling in my voice.

 

We need to recruit. Do we need to recruit? Can we, are we entitled to recruit? I know I sounded convinced, and I was at the time, but I also was scarred, and in the end I think I only wanted to feel I wasn't alone in this trap. This is probably the reason why people have children. Do I want to bear the responsibility of bringing more volunteers into this world, to make young mind spin with hope of universal knowledge and justice and order? That would be so easy, in here, it is so tempting I can feel my finger prick every time I pass all those ranks of heads bent over a book. We have so much to offer, at first, all the assets one could desire, it is as if we were designed by moonlight on a windy, cool night, at the border of a cliff so high and so steep (again, J.). We are so mysterious that mystery itself would have wanted to befriend us in high school. I do remember how it felt, at first, at first. Coding. Decoding. Reading. Testing. That headlight sensation you have when you crack open a mystery that was made up for you in the first place. This is a long-debated issue, but training made me feel as if the world was a riddle I could solve. How wrong of them to teach us that. They open your eyes alright, and then they nail it forever to your ankle.

 

But they wouldn't been marked, our volunteers, no, they would be free. Freer, at least. More than we were, or than we will ever be, really, for you can always pretend you were never there, that it doesn't smell like smoke, that those eyes never saw… Maybe I only want someone that could decide to erase it all and actually manage it. This is probably the reason why people have children, too. For they could never fix anything. I do believe we are un-fixable. And I don't even want to be fixed anymore; I love that messed-up, limping walk more than I can possibly say. I'll never be a straight traveler again, and this is just as well. But I am not sure I can say to your face that I want to trip others up.

 

Am I too hierarchic, though? You leave me unattended for one minute, and I am already reproducing oppressive power structures. Maybe it wouldn't have to be that way. Maybe they would not be our children. Maybe they would point, and laugh, and call us names for our sheer despair and cluelessness. They would be right.

I'd like to know what you think, when you're finished with my riddles (you slow pumpkin). Maybe I am the one who needs to talk to B., after all. My grudge may be bigger than expected. Man hands on misery to man.

 

PS: I caught sight of E. entering the student library this very morning. This is extremely worrying.

 

Voluntarily yours, 

M.

 


	8. 8 April, 24th

8

 

V.,

It was good to have you around (a sentence which here means: in the Complete Tower and in its direct vicinity), even if it was only for a short while. You know I am not prone to this kind of declaration, but I feel more peaceful after our discussion. Having a seeming of a plan helps, even if it is a fragmentary one. Especially since you have one fragment already.

Have you heard from B., since she gave it back to you? I haven't, which is normal, but I haven't caught sight of her either lately, and given the circumstances, I'm inclined to worry. Maybe her semester ended, and she took a break. Maybe she is taking care of the baby and his sibling. Maybe.

L. would have known that kind of things. I remember a time, even if I was very young, when he always knew where she was. Some sort of sixth sense, or some intense and disturbing stalking. I remember thinking: so, this is it. The real thing. I wonder if things would be different, if he was still here. Still around. Alive. The situation would probably be the same – he always had a rather… schematic vision of things. But B. would probably be different. I have nothing against B. (the other B.). But still, different. There would undoubtedly be more plays, more gloomy and depressing poems around. And more stylish hats. On the other hand, thanks God for the lack of accordion. Would he have aged like the others, getting blinder, less acute, less able to embrace the complexity of the world? Why does it always have to be like this? I feel like people's mind crystallizes at some point, that their judgment is obscured by a filter that gets thicker and thicker through the years. Are we already there, V.? This is one of the things that scares me the most. I'm afraid of all the things I won't be able to see anymore, but that will still see me.

Maybe O. is one of them: where can he be? E. is still rather loud, but I sense she's up to something, and when she doesn't want to get noticed, she isn't. I am powerless here, I cannot very well attack first. Remind me to check if the fishes in the main yard are still innocuous. Since E. had them settled, I had a look several times, but one can always stumble upon a teething surprise. Until something terrible and irretrievable happens, I can only wait, as always. Be back soon.

 

Voluntarily yours,

M.


	9. 9 May, 22th

9

 

V.,

Great Gods, what have you done? I just received an encrypted pneumatic from H., of all people, saying you've been hurt. He said you were safe, though, but I don't know what to believe: write immediately, if you can. If not, have H. do it for you, or anyone really, just use one of my fake directions and our personal code minus four. If you are unconscious, you will never hear the end of it. Either way.

I cannot believe this: you were supposed to be detecting, simply researching for the missing parts, how come you ended up meeting _her_? Where? When? And why such a violent turn out? I suppose this has at least the advantage of ending my doubts on E.'s case. To a certain extend. You never know a person's whole truth, and everybody has reasons and so on, but everybody has limits, too, and she just overstepped mine by a large mile and counting.

She was supposed to be hiding. She was supposed to be hidden so well even our best detectors couldn't find her. She was supposed to be like invisible ink: unseen, most of the time, and extremely unreliable. On that point, we know where we stand. Reasonably, there isn't much more than one hypothesis as why you met her in the first place (or the second one. I am not responsible for where you choose to entertain your dates).

I can only imagine, of course. The wind howling, the air slightly sulfurous. Scattered remains of light wearing away in the distance, that hour when everything seems purple. Echoes of a bell. Some bushy, lawless vegetation. No birds. They never came back afterward. And then. And then. And then. A cliff. Or was it a well? Oh.

 

Did he fell, was he pushed, where did the original impulse came from?

 

But it is so hard to figure out, she is more like a legend, really. No one ever saw her, apart from K., J., and B., once, briefly or so I've heard, and this tale seemed made for a book by Woolf. They said she was not that strong. In every way, I think. They said she hardly spoke to anyone anymore.

What do you say? Did she speak to you? Did you fall, were you pushed? This may not be a two-sided story either. Do I miss something, apart from you, in this sordid and strange and sad and slippery equation? I never was very good at maths, you know that. If she thought you were looking for the missing pieces for the obvious reason that one with less sense would be looking for them, she must have panicked. We'll never know what she was thinking, if she was at all. I wonder how she looks. I wonder if she looks like wonder. That is what they said.

I will harass H. until I am sure you are under the care of competent and non-murderous people. I have heard they made something decent out of the old Clinic, thanks to their new administrator. Theoretically, you'll be safe there. I cannot imagine E. passing through security. They might not be volunteers, but they are said to know what they are doing, even if, with the years, everyone seems more prone to distraction. Accept no sedative. Double check on your pills. Stay away from all windows. Look out for bluebirds (I am sending some plants for an antiseptic balm soon). I am so mad at you that I have to refrain from writing to K. and ask her to be madder at you. That would be quite spectacular. This is no way to die, but you probably know that as well as me. Try and make some effort, otherwise I will have great trouble romanticizing it in that prospective, unauthorized biography of yours that I intend to write after your untimely passing away (for which of us is to make it beyond his forties, really? This is unheard of.) Give me some glamor and some drama. You were at heights and didn't even manage a good cliffhanger. What kind of a hero are you, V.?

I tend to turn sinister when I try to cheer people up, especially you. Forget all about me, and get that body cells to heal quickly, quickly, quickly. If needed, I'm only at bluebird distance. I realize that _is_ , in fact, pretty far off, but if there only was one life at stake at a time , sulfur's exchange rate wouldn't be so high. Take _care_.

 

Voluntarily yours,

M.

 


	10. 10 June, 13th

10

 

V.,

 

I've… traveled. I've traveled more than you will hear, and though I was actually close when you thought me far, I've traveled deeper, if not further.

 

Everything is changed.

 

I saw her. It was not what I expected it to be. As for your own encounter, from what she implied, I gather it rather was, but we will have to clear that up, even if she says you probably won't remember much.

I am so puzzled at the present that you could probably spread me on a Turkish carpet, attempt to produce images of a kitten in a basket or the Great Fire of London and rate me for 8 years old and above. Dahl knows what really happened in this town, and once again, L.

 

She is everything you might expect, and yet again she is not. As for morality, well. She is so afraid of being wrong, much more than any of us, and I don't know what to think of it. It is cowardly and sneaky. But on the other hand, her way is such a hard way, even if it is the only way for her, it is a road so rarely trodden, and so deserted that I wonder if it is not the right one after all. It is most vexatious that uncertainty shall persist over the matter of the relativity of all things. Even if no one can pretend to be taken by surprise here.

She said some things on her own behalf that weren't totally unjustified. Mostly, she tries not to be part of the game. It is hard to resent her for that.

She has the most fascinating look. I can still see my reflection starring back at me doubtfully in her iris. The reports say nothing of the voice, but they are very wrong not to; they probably didn't talk to her on the phone or in the dead of night, they probably didn't talk to her at all, and all the reports contain are the looks, again and again, and really I find it unfair; that from that great figure of tales and whispers, we couldn't extract a sound. That should have rung a bell for us, yet it didn't and it reminds me that, though we claim to be vigilant, though we are willing, we can be so careless sometimes.

Do not get me wrong: it became of the utmost importance to me to discover if she really hurt you. It would change some things. And yet again, not as much as I would like. I would see why she panicked (not that it is an excuse). You are a gardener, after all. And that, we should have perceived in advance, too.

In my heart of heart, I cannot believe she would have mocked me this much. In my heart of heart, she left the clumsily carved image of a desperate little girl, and though my heart of heart is prone to delusion, this is where I keep trace of those who matter in some way or other. So on with the story.

She did not react well to the details of our plan. This is hardly a surprise, but I foolishly hoped she would be able to relate to our situation and sense the urgency. It seems that acting, apart from those who do so on a stage in the most horrid pinstriped costumes, never comes easily to us. She thought it would necessarily backfire, and that scared her to no end. She is _very_ scared, although she does not at all appear to be. I still think we should track the missing ones. I should, in fact. You'll be weak, and we need to research on a way to use them efficiently. So this is back to the science library for you, as soon as you can. Since you'll be there when you wake up (I hope – which is absurd, this place is a mausoleum), the most likely place to contain useful information is undoubtedly _their_ library. I walked by it, I had to. I don't know, the abode looks abandoned, but I think I glimpsed at a shadow… a remarkably small shadow, at that. I am unsure if it's safe at all, this might be foolish but maybe, if you could discreetly inquire from the Clinic's direction… Everybody keeps telling me they are safe albeit knowing things, a rare enough combination. You'll see for yourself.

 

So, anyway, I have an early birthday present for you, you should be up and coming by then, shouldn't you? An actual present, not merely the absence of any terrible thing (I remember that Christmas list). Well, sort of, at least. What can I say: late summer is a very wrong season to be born.

On a different note, J. is monstrously fed up with me. I think my last trip was too much for her, even though I hadn't even wanted her there in the first place. But she never listens. I shouldn't complain, for she was a great help, but I am obliged to wonder what would have come of it, hadn't she been around. I have been careless, to say the truth. I have been careless and now, I think I scare her. And, considering my actions from her vantage point, it is true that you might feel I could be at the beginning of a slippery slope. I know how bad it looks. To appear gray and morally ambivalent to the last persons caring for us is the last thing I want, and it pained me greatly to realize I was offering a doubtful image. But she always prevents us from seeing for ourselves, and this encounter made me realize at last that I will have none of that. We'll talk about it soon enough. I think I may have made choices that night that I don't really understand. I only wish I could make it rain.

 

When you wake up (and it will be soon, do you hear me?) I will be far again, but I have good cause. You sleep in the oddest ways, you know, be glad I didn't bring K.'s camera, or else I would have had extraordinary blackmail material.

 

 

Voluntarily yours,

M.

 


	11. 11 July, 3rd

11

 

V.,

 

Do you remember that old saying, the sun never sets on the realms of silence? Guess where I am.

No, really, guess. I would like to say that I don't mean it, but I deem it more reasonable, for security reasons, to give you a more detailed account through another channel, and so don't be mad at me for not elaborating. I know I owe you a long conversation, one of those conversations that involve coffee and the small, white hours of the morning, along with a keen sense of disapproval. I am sorry, but I had to go, due to a crucial lead that I cannot possibly explain here, however badly I want to.

I feel so cut off. I write to you, but I don't even know if you've awoken (I should hope so, nonetheless; it's getting late in the season). I haven't heard from anyone. I can't hear anything here, it is all so muffled by the distance, and the air has that peculiar quality, like it would like to get cruelly cold as soon as possible. I can hardly conceive a worst time to be away from every source of information; I can't even tell if it is because people are giving me the cold shoulder or if the birds are simply overworked. They have all sorts of birds, here. I have rarely seen such a display of beasts. As you know, I have mixed feelings about wilderness. But, though the pine forests are black and boundless and the lakes transparent, I will speak none of it.

 

I had a dream last night. I have the most peculiar dreams, now that you're asleep all the time, and if I can bear that burden for you too, I might as well do so. We were sitting at the bottom of the ocean, you, me, K., some others, I can remember. I know it was K. because I remember thinking: it is so very peculiar to wear glasses at the bottom of the ocean, what's the point? You look like you brought your own native aquarium with you and are a fish deprived of water, your eyes quivering left and right as if they were small fry on a pan. _She_ was there too, and another woman, a red Queen, and her hair was red, and her skin was, too. Our own hair were floating toward the sky, and they were very long, way longer than they are in reality, as if they were our thoughts, directly gliding out from our brains in long, undulating lines, or no, more like black waves, puppet strings that unwound again and again like old movies reels. The light was green and flickering, at the bottom of the ocean, and our impossibly long hair went back and forth. You couldn't see where they began, maybe they ran all the way to the top of the ocean, to the surface, but I thought: there is none, there can't be any top nor any surface to that kind of water. I tried to ask _her_ where it began, if it was far away, if we were very deep and if so, how much time it would take, in her opinion, to climb up all the way to the top, on a scale of hair? But all my mouth produced was bubbles, big, soft bubbles that lazily glued themselves to her skin before slowly popping. She winked at me, and made some knowing gesture I didn't understand.

And just when I was beginning to reflect on whose thoughts I would climb if I had to, who would most likely lead me to the surface, the end, I began chocking, not on water exactly, but on the same thick glue the bubbles had been made of, and she saw that happening, for I was looking at her the whole time, and I tried to speak it out, but it wouldn't come out of my lungs at all. Things began to blur at this point, but I distinctly remember her saying, or at least hearing those words in my head, echoing underneath the ocean, saying:

“I never expected to find you so willing.”

To say the truth, neither did I.

Then it changed. All the glue was suddenly removed from my lungs as I was no longer under water but falling, falling from the sky in a straight line, arms spread, my hair just as long and vertical as before, maybe even longer, for it was as if I was unrolling myself from a reel. It was cloudy, you could barely see a thing, and at first I was caught in the deepest mist, and then it wasn't clouds after all, but smoke. As it cleared out I realized I was screaming, one long, uninterrupted scream. The ground appeared and painted over it, across the night, a giant eye opened and looked at me. It looked through me, and saw everything, every tiny little thing that there was to see about me, every inch, every little burned secret laid bare. Do you know a thing? I think that the scream wasn't meant to convey fear. It was only the natural thing to do.

I fell in the eye, and with the batting of one giant lid, it closed on me. It stops there.

 

I am in the most complete ignorance as to what it might all mean. J. (not that J., the older one, but not _that_ guy) would have several things to say about it, and I dare say most of them would put me to shame, as always. I can trace some symbolical elements, fire and water and such, but the general pattern eludes me. Tell me if it seems to you the last foreshadowing of the Apocalypse. All I know is that I decidedly lack sleep these days.

If you think about it, it is a bit ironic that I am unable to read myself better than that. I should take it as a professional failure. But books are so much easier, and even if I'm wrong, who would be able to tell? All those dead authors are conveniently quiet. This is the way it should be.

Do you ever wonder if there is more to us than that one talent everyone has? Not that anybody ever suggested that there wasn't, but those things always become a frame of mind, and very soon you're unable to see past them. What do you say, constant gardener? Is that a role or a tool? Are we really that special?

For all it is worth, I wonder what _she_ might have been. Does it feels to you that, along the line, we were somehow cut short of, say, I don't know, an inventor, a librarian, or a cook? Or… we will always need a meteorologist. We have always needed a meteorologist. Someone who senses the wind turning. Nothing biology-related, though. But yet again, maybe not. Maybe not her. You must be able to really feel the elements, to shine with the sun like you mean it, to fall with the rain. You will say I get carried away. We are auctioning for a scientist, not a romantic painter. In fact, that may very well be the problem at hand: not really a scientist, probably. I don't suppose… I guess it would cause havoc to find a place for a pyrotechnist? Oh, I can only imagine R.'s face. Can you not, like, when I first tried to steal those vials all those years ago? There isn't enough sour lemons in the whole wide world.

But I think I was onto something. Oh yes, I recall now.

 

A drawer. And in an ideal world, in a world so bright you'd have to walk with your eyes to the ground, hoping for some shadow, something even better. An architect.

 

 

Voluntarily yours,

 

M.

 


	12. 12 August, 30th

12

 

V.,

 

You know I would consider it particularly elegant if the complexity of your last series of riddles was a way to convey that you are now fully convinced by what I said the other night. I confess that, after my eightieth attempt at that fire puzzle, I have gotten quite the opposite idea most unpleasantly blinking in my head. Nevertheless, the brilliance of it never ceased to amaze me. Where in the world did you find E.'s old trunk? I barely remember his face. I hope you will tell me where those items came from eventually. The salt was a nice addition. Again, I nearly broke my neck trying to reach it, so I gather you had no intentions to make amends after all. There is no lesson to learn on my side, I'll have you know. At least none that requires struggling with an unstable ladder in an ancient and dusty attic potentially supplied to the brim with tetanus germs. I'd like to say that you'll regret it someday, but rest assure that the next time I will have the patience to design enigmas for you, the reward will be greater than the chase. What can I say, I always had a good, lazy heart.

But enough with the snappy reproaches. Mind you that, while suffering over your little chore, I stepped into something much more troubling (yes, even considering the whole L.U.T.I.A.P.U. business). I will keep this short:

I've found B. In a fridge. I've found B. in a fridge and, let that matching box where it is, or not, in fact throw it away – why did you even get it in the first place? – because she is fine.

 

It was last night (as you may imagine, the school is more or less deserted these days) and your assignment sent me on errands I was a great deal freer to do than usual. So I wandered in the most unlikely places, partly, I admit, looking for inspiration, sensing my personal amount of despair accumulating to reach levels significantly higher than usual. After all, if you'd used the attic, why not the cellars, the administrative aisle, or even the gardens, for Lowry's sake, that would have been _meaningful_ , but no, of all the wretched places, this had to be the students' resting room, and don't get me started on those ladders again. Anyway, I came by the cafeteria – those low neon lights give out a very peculiar light at night, the kitchens looked almost phosphorescent – when I heard a noise. It was faint, soft but regular, and it wasn't giving up. I had heard of those rats, and I was less than thrilled. But soon I had the disagreeable impression that someone was insistently knocking on my mind, and I realized the noises had a precise grammar that was familiar to me, like a school rhyme's tune. That was almost literally true, for I came to recognize Danielewski's third movement of the Coded Symphony for fingers, wall and despair, expertly performed _rallentendo._ The source, I discovered, was one of the big fridge they use to stock that boiled meat they try to feed us with. Except this time it contained something even less savory, if I may say. I have to confess that, shameful as it is, I was so taken up in solving your riddles that I briefly considered it a very elaborated sort of fridge code. B. was kind of blue. And I mean it this way. She looked infinitely more pleased to see me than she had all year, which is always a bit unpleasant. A long boiling shower later (fortunately, the shared showers are still in function even if there is virtually no student around yet), I had her in my clothes in the Complete Tower. Have you ever seen B. wearing turtlenecks? There was that play, back then, but I can't remember if you've seen it too.

It was the first time she talked to me (I mean, really talked to me, not stood there looking dignified) in more than a decade, almost two. It felt so weird to be on an equal footing – well, almost – with her. I mean, it's B. She was so distant and patronizing when we were young. But you know that better than I do.

It turned out E. had put her in there, after spiking her drink at the director's start of the year cocktail. She was conscious enough at that time to identify her (at long, long last if you ask me). From what I gathered, she managed to injure her pretty badly using a random toothpick that she had kept in her pocket, having found no better place to dispose of it at the soirée. I find it oddly comforting to know that B. also has regular human problems after all. Of course, I tried to find out if E. assaulted her because she'd leaned something about the statue's fragment she used to have. B. isn't sure, but she seemed to think it was gratuitous, pure entertainment on E.'s part. Apparently, she didn't even try to search her. But in my opinion, she was either frustrated by something and trying to soothe her nerves, either in need to prove something to someone, somewhere. And we are still incapable of tracing O. (at least I am. Are you?) I'm making it sounds like polite conversation, but it really wasn't. She yelled at me for a good part of the meeting and only stopped to sip my tea with poise and rigidity. In short, she resents us for getting her back into trouble with the statue business. Even if she says E.'s attack isn't related to that, she links her very presence here to ours (which may be true, but really this isn't even the most likely hypothesis – there are so many resources to exploit at this school that I don't even believe we are the most interesting thing to chase) and she would appreciate greatly if we could just go away. My words, but frankly that was the spirit. She is so concerned about her children that she seems to have forgotten about her tutoring years. Almost. She offers a hiding place. She says that you have to take care. I'm sorry but I promised I'll deliver the message.

 

I remember her in the orchard. I was in such awe of her at the time. And she was a lot less preppy than she is now. I still think this is a facade.

 

So here we are. I need your information more than anything now. I will do as I must, but not here or in front of people. I still need some sort of confirmation. A phone call.

 

She said she was getting some success with picking the lock of the fridge before I heard her, but I like to think your perverted mind saved her from freezing to death. You monster.

We're also having E. expelled. B. invented some story about personal harassment, the Duchess put in a word for her, and this is it. It is safer but I fear it might trigger some sort of retaliation. B. said they guard the entrances, but we know how this goes: she'll just have to smile to them and she will pass unnoticed, with her designer clothes and posh demeanor. This is a sick, problematic world. I fear we are part of the problem.

 

 

Voluntarily yours,

M.


	13. 13 September, 13th

13

 

V.,

 

It has been such a long summer. It has been such a long summer that I cannot, for the life of me, remember a longer one, nor a brighter one. We walked under the sun, we walked through the fields of canola tracing two solitary lines, burying our silence under the lush earth. It has been such a quiet summer, and we stayed stuck on our swing, facing the sea, ignoring all the wrinkles accumulating on the oily water because we dreamed of preserving that immiscible phases. We are tanned with joy, we are wet with hope. We have danced to songs with no more than three notes and been contented. We have stuck our tongues to frozen sugar and spices, waiting for it to melt. We forgot everything about the cold. This has been such a precious summer, and I hope we will keep it somehow, hidden and protected, enclosed in a jar of cinnamon and plums. Our fruits are ripe. And now our summer must end.

 

 

I am so sorry. We always knew it couldn't last forever but still, this sounds so hard, so heavy, you know my arms are weak. Can you tell what began it? Was it the Duchess? Was it B.? Was it the “S” of it all? Or the song. I think it was the song.

 

We all had parents who used to write far too final postcards whenever they had the chance. We were raised by the “just in case”. I advise you to take leave of all those that you need to part from. Say your goodbyes, although we are not leaving for good. You know me and my metaphorical shenanigans. But this time we came too close to an actual plot to back off, and as I was saying the other day, we are back in business, whether you like it or not. It's strange, for once, to have a purpose that does not involve targeting something or someone from the other side (the original “other side”). I wonder if we will feel more useful that way. You know, in the darkest hour I've also wondered if that wasn't a sad occasion for reunification. After all, that's as good a motive as there ever was. And then I regained my senses and remembered. God knows what has gotten into me lately. It's just that my hair has grown longer, and so my thoughts wander off.

I think I may be trying to take the narrative steam away from us. Force of habit, but it would always be a good thing. For as soon as we embark on a quest, as I fear we are clearly about to, we are done for. Someone will have to record the extent of our failure, but it will not be me anymore. I figure L. would have done that perfectly.

You know, I come prepared. I have patched my beret and all that. A brand new heroine with acceptable posture and profile. No dark secrets, no mistakes, nothing but a blank page of boring optimism. It feels a little stiff on the edges, but losing a dimension proves very comfortable.

I'm afraid we may need to split at some point, but otherwise, the only solace I can find in this predicament is the fact that we will be together, more than we've ever been lately (even if it _was_ a long summer, that's a summer that took precautions to keep us apart), and I won't have to write so many fastidious letters. Of that you may, I believe, rejoice. And perhaps we'll have help. We still have friends, for one thing, but I also take the liberty of reminding you that help sometimes comes from the most unexpected places, and should it be so, should it be that help comes in the form of whispered phone calls and sarcastic banter, I beg you to accept it, for my sake.

I hate to say so, but I have a bit of a plan. If you have a bit of it as well, I guess we know what is waiting for us. There is, after all, a whole spectrum of failure. There are some shades, I hope, that leave the issue tackled in less terrible a state that it would have stood otherwise, even if the problem isn't solved, the bad ones aren't behind the bars, and the world isn't saved. I do not ask for closure. No one can. But there is something more to this; listen.

 

 

We've been treading in the dry, dry grass, and it crackled as it broke under our feet and suddenly, something dropped, and something was amiss. I want to tell you, I want to be the one to do so, because I doubt anyone would get to write this sentence – pronounce it yes, but always in delusion, always in a rush, and we know how this is when you take your children out to play on the beach, when you queue to a friend's funeral, when you are at sea, you tend to be wrong – but write it never, it would strike anyone as too extraordinary, and I may seem bold or unconscious, but it is such a privilege, it feels like it will be the most important sentence I ever write, and there is nothing else, nothing else really, so listen.

 

 

 

 

Listen.

 

 

 

 

 

The crickets have stopped chirping.

 

 

 

 

I want you to understand what it means. This has been such a long summer. We stood on the surface of the earth, a thin and delicate layer of mud and bones, and for the first time, the crickets chirped for themselves. It was hot, it was sunny, the grass was dry and they chirped without a purpose. Without a secondary meaning, without depth. And now, as we readying ourselves for a long journey, they've stopped. And I think I know why. For this one time, because it has been such a long summer, the crickets got tired of chirping. So they chirped no more. And by doing so, they did something even greater. They stopped minding us. They forgot. They lived their own life. And surely, V., surely, that must count for something.

 

 

So let us, for some time, enjoy the silence. And whatever is to come, let us not fear. After all, autumn has always been my favorite season.

 

 

 

 

Voluntarily yours,

M.

 


	14. Undated

Victor,

 

This is not a pocket universe. This is a gigantic, messed-up, scary, full-grown universe, and we are but alone in it.

I really wish it wasn't. But we must deal with it, with all its ungodly imperfections, overlooking our own, and they are many. At the end of the day, remain the cakes I occasionally bake when there isn't any life at stake, your numerous accounts of the wonders of the Underworld, that ridiculous tie, my own doubts, no small amount of ashes and, of course, your mother. Sometimes, I really wonder why our illustrious ancestors chose an open eye to represent the action they intended to have upon this world. For all our matches, we do not walk the earth with our eyes open. And sometimes I wonder if the only light we are capable of making shine is not that sick yellowish glow that always comes coated with smoke.

 

 

 

The world is quiet, here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, a fragmentary ----


End file.
